


Familiar Territory

by TheArchaeologist



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, Depressed Hank Anderson, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 04:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: Funerals have been a constant in Hank’s life. First it was his father, and then his mother, and then…Ugh. He needs a drink.





	Familiar Territory

Whoever had decided that the first thing anybody should do after burying a loved one is to go and be social was a fucking moron.

It was a stupid notion. Why would a grieving family want to go put on a brave front after something like that? Who the fuck wants to stand around after saying goodbye, telling life stories and eating cocktail sausages on sticks? It’s a miracle more people don’t choke on the cold pastry of the mini sausage rolls as they try to keep face for family and friends. 

Hank had hosted three funerals in his lifetime. 

The first has been his old man. The bastard had conked out and died right there in his armchair one night, head still aimed at the television and the usual stern expression on his face. Turns out your face can freeze like that if you hold it for too long.

The thing was, the man was as tight about money as he was with everything else, and he had gone and trotted off the Earth without so much as a funeral plan in place, leaving Hank to pick up the pieces when his Mother was left with a bill two miles long and debts they didn’t even know existed. 

Turns out the git had been borrowing money for years.

As much as he griped about Fowler, Hank could never fault the man on the fact that when he put in his overtime hours during those less than happy days, they came back to him even longer, bumping up his pay and easing the stress of the ordeal just a bit more. Fowler never acknowledged it, and Hank never did anything more than a thankful nod, but it made all the difference to his Mother, though she never did regain the weight she lost at the time.

Her funeral had been the second Hank hosted, on a bright June day that had no business being as sunny as it was. A heart attack had been the diagnosis, supplied days after Hank had turned up during his lunch hour to drop off the coat she had left at his only to find her sprawled across the kitchen floor unresponsive. He was no idiot, he had seen dead bodies before, and it took a single glance to know that she was long gone.

Like fuck that had done anything to help the pain, though.

The wake had been fifties themed, with music and snacks to match. He could remember Cole asking what the songs where, and Hank explaining it was from a musical set in the period. He’d promised they’d watch it when Cole was older.

That lead to the third funeral Hank ever hosted, one on a dank mid-October day.

Fuck, he can’t even remember it.

That’s a lie. He can remember the sobbing as clear as anything, the squeezing sensation in his chest that suffocated him for the entire thing, a feeling that made him wonder if that was the last thing his Mom ever felt. He can remember people talking to him but having no idea what the hell they were saying, and the feeling of someone pushing a glass of water into his hands.

He can remember stumbling home, eyes stinging dry with old tears and brain six kinds of heavy, the world morphing into a saturated mess. Sumo had done something when he walked through the door, he could recall snapping at the dog, but what it was has long since been lost amongst the other swirling sensations of the day. 

Someone at the wake had asked him about music, he could just about remember that. But whether any was played he has no idea, and there had been no themed snacks this time. No organisation, or togetherness, or understanding what that person would have loved.

He can’t even remember what the food was. Looking back, he can imagine everyone standing around, hungry and awkward as their host broke down in the corner he was shoved into, until people elected themselves to drive down to the supermarket and buy something. Probably tiny quiches and cheese, they’re the usual shit you get at funerals.

God, he couldn’t have even held it together for one day for his son, what kind of a man did that make him?

Fuck.

Just…Fuck.

Hank gulps down the rest of his glass, hitting it hard against the bar. 

Jimmy dutifully tops it up again.

While he had only hosted three, the very nature of the job meant that he had attended many more funerals in his career. Unfortunately, not everyone who came in made it out the same way, and he seen his fair share of officers taken down by some bastard with a gun or blade. Of course, being a Lieutenant in the department meant he was among the more obliged of the team to attend those funerals, or on that one occasion where it was only family at the crematorium, the wake.

After so many he had worked out the knack of it now. You stand near the back so you don’t have to listen to the quiet crying of the wife or husband or kids, zone out until the parts you had to sing, and then feel guilty for the rest of the day because you probably should have shown more respect for a colleague. Top the day off with drowning your sorrows in the nearest bar and then rinse and repeat for the next time.

This latest funeral had taken the best part of the day to get through, prompting Hank to briefly return home to let Sumo out and change out of his monkey suit before heading to his usual dark corner of Detroit. 

His phone had buzzed several times since then, but in all likelihood it was work, and Hank didn’t think Fowler would appreciate the middle finger he was tempted to text back.

There were plenty of other guys on duty; they could look after themselves for one night.

Then again, he had thought the same thing the night Officer Deckart had been called out and look where Hank had been forced to spend his day because of it.

It was always the decent ones. How come Reed rarely ever had trouble? Unlike Deckart, he didn’t have young kids that Hank had gone great lengths to ignore the eyes of, or a wife who had barely three hours sleep under her but had to appear strong for her children. The prick probably didn’t have some frail heartbroken Mother or a sibling recently married, why couldn’t he get ruffed up a bit for a change? It’s not like it would be undeserved.

The bell to the bar tings loudly, ringing an uncomfortable loud in his head and making Hank hunch further over his glass. The open door brings in a waft of cool, wet air, slicing through the comfortable temperature of the bar. Hank hated rain on the best of days, but seeing all those black umbrellas today? _Fuck._

What a goddamn mess.

Someone mutters something beside him, and Hank blinks lazily. A figure appears out of the very corner of his eye, just visible through Hank’s grey hair but slightly shadowed in the lighting of the room.

“Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife. I looked for you at the station but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn’t until after I wrote this I realised The Hostage takes place in August and Hank and Connor meet in November, but let’s just ignore that for the sake of feels!


End file.
